


I took all this love I found and I hope that it's enough

by randomananas



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, First Impressions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomananas/pseuds/randomananas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You must always give the good first impression. People are a bit silly, they get stuck with the first impression they have of you and it will stay with them forever. Like a picture. If you are kind with them, they will always think of you as a good person, especially when they wrong you and you pay them back what they deserve. They will never expect it.”<br/>Napoleon giggled. He was used to his Grandma’s harsh way of dealing with people. He was sure she could throw a well landed punch and could be able to teach him how.<br/>“But most important, if you behave with people like a bad kid, oh well, for them, you will always be a bad kid. Whatever you do. You will always be, just an arrogant boy, just a spoiled kid, just a bad person.<br/>Just this, just that. </p><p>And one day, young boy, one day, you will wrong the last person you want to cross with and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I took all this love I found and I hope that it's enough

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little one-shot in few hours and it's un-beta'd, sorry for any mistakes, let me know and I will fix them immediately!  
> it's late, i'm super tired and in few hours i have an exam (which i don't know nothing because my brain couldn't stop writing this fic, good job me!)  
> anyway, this is my first time writing the man from U.N.C.L.E. so i hope i gave them justice!  
> thank you for passing by :)
> 
> the title is from [only love by pvris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqWYwYdw8SY)

Napoleon Solo’s fondest memories of his childhood in his Home Country belonged to his Grandma’s little house in New Jersey.  
A grave and gentle woman, Napoleon’s grandmother. She had severe lines hardened by the Great War, hardship and fatigue and, at the same time, refined and made gentle by the love towards her family and her grandson.  
Napoleon used to play with the neighborhood kids in front of the old house, while his Grandma looked attentively at her grandson, an old and motherly hawk who observed her family grow but always ready to intervene when in danger. 

“We’ve witnessed the war, Napoleon, your grandfather and I. He stayed there to fight because he was a brave man and he made me leave England with our little son, your father.  
I was alone and he stayed in Europe to fight. Stubborn man, your grandfather,” she sometimes muttered to her grandson while cooking for him. “But a gentleman, he was. A true gentleman. War took him from me. You’re so much alike your grandfather.”  
“A gentleman?” Napoleon asked almost joking.  
“No, stubborn. Too much stubborn.” She replied, swatting away Napoleon’s craving hands from the pancakes.

Napoleon Solo spent the summers before the Second World War at his Grandma’s house, reading comics and playing with the other kids.  
As he grew up, Napoleon Solo became aware of his own appearances, of his own intelligence and how he could easily escape away from every punishment, by smiling and just behaving accordingly.  
He could steal Ol’ Bucky’s apples and avoid being caught or punished, always enjoying his prizes in the shadows of his Grandma’s oak tree.  
With other children, Napoleon Solo was sometimes arrogant, sometimes pleasing, sometimes condescending, sometimes soft-spoken, sometimes sarcastic. It was a study of other people’s reactions and behaviours, a game he enjoyed, where he teased, provoked and waited for the desired reaction.  
Sometimes it was an insult, usually it was a black eye.

“Stubborn, arrogant kid. So much like your grandfather, too much like your father. Must be the men of the family. ” Grandma lashed out but never too aggressively. She growled, barked and huffed but never bit. Luckily for Napoleon. “Look what they have done to you! Speak too much, speak aloud, here where you end up, beaten like a stray dog! Should teach you some manners!”  
Napoleon loved his Grandma, especially when she gently smacked the back of his head and gave him one or two candies more than his daily ration.  
And the lesson was never learned.

“Napoleon,” Grandma called him from the kitchen, one morning. She was making cranberry pie, a must for the Sunday dinners. Napoleon looked up from his book and approached quietly the kitchen.  
“You called, Grandma?”  
The elder woman nodded and gestured him to sit beside her. “I remember once you asked me about being gentleman, like your grandfather, did you?”  
Napoleon nodded.  
“Well, ‘tis time I teach you a lesson.” she began. “You see, one of the many reasons your grandfather was a gentleman, it was because he always made the perfect first impression to anyone he met.”  
Napoleon looked at her puzzled. He started realizing that maybe that was just another way for her to teach him a lesson how to behave like a good kid and blah blah blah.  
“It’s adult stuff, you should be curious. Every kid is curious by adult things.  
You see, first impressions are important, your grandfather always said so. You can be a bad boy, but if you get them right the first time, for them, you will always be a right boy.” Grandma continued.  
“What do you mean, get them right?” Napoleon asked, now genuinely curious.  
“You must always give the good first impression. People are a bit silly, they get stuck with the first impression they have of you and it will stay with them forever. Like a picture. If you are kind with them, they will always think of you as a good person, especially when they wrong you and you pay them back what they deserve. They will never expect it.”  
Napoleon giggled. He was used to his Grandma’s harsh way of dealing with people. He was sure she could throw a well landed punch and could be able to teach him how.  
“But most important, if you behave with people like a bad kid, oh well, for them, you will always be a bad kid. Whatever you do. You will always be, _just _an arrogant boy, _just_ a spoiled kid, _just_ a bad person. _Just_ this, _just_ that.  
And one day, young boy, one day, you will wrong the last person you want to cross with and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”__

__

“As usual, Cowboy, you’re _just_ a thief." 

__Napoleon Solo slowly opened his eyes and a dry smile appeared on his perfectly shaved face, looking up at Illya’s distasteful glance towards him, as he rummaged through Napoleon’s loot at the Vinciguerra’s race party.  
In moments like this, the begrudgingly expression of his Grandma appeared at the surface of his mind, always reminding him how to be a gentleman.  
_You will wrong the last person you want to cross with and you will regret it for the rest of your life._

__He had spent the rest of his childhood years and halfway his teenage years with the firm belief that the first impressions were the most important impressions. Be kind to your friends and show who is to rule to your enemies.  
A lessons halfway learned and as easily forgotten. The old manners of being as he liked came back like childhood friends and stayed, a old but still comfortable coat on his shoulders.  
And, if happened to get across the wrong person, well, he would have to deal with it as usual. Wits and a good smile always smothered -or, in the worst case scenario, angered- the most dangerous of the enemies.  
Obviously, his grandmother was a Solo and she was more right than all the men in the family. 

__“I know, Peril, you’ve already told me. More than once.”__  
_Just_ a thieft, _just_ an American capitalist.  
Just a Cowboy.  
_Just_ this, _just_ that.

It tasted sourly in his mouth, a bitter pill he couldn’t manage to swallow. He looked at the built shoulders of his companion, a more bitter longing gnawing inside him and sighed, biting quietly down his nail and he wondered about how he was right with his life and completely wrong. 

Napoleon’s first impression of Illya Kuryakin was of a rude, exaggeratedly tall, violently dangerous Russian spy whose vodka had been drugged with illegal hormones which made him a superhuman person. The almost unbelievable scene of Illya ripping off the back of Gaby’s car with his bare hands proved him how KGB probably fed their spies with hormones and likely some kind of nuclear stuff.  
“I should suggest to CIA that yes, Russia owns nuclear weapons but they use it to make their soldiers Superman.” Napoleon commented to himself, in disbelief.  
He loved Superman and Batman when he was kid, but they were less… Well, less inclined to rip off the trunk of a running car and generally try to murder people. 

 

As their partnership followed through, Napoleon found himself considering and reconsidering his first impression of Illya and, more generally, his whole impression of his Russian partner.  
Unnerving to the point of exasperation, a disbelieving disinterest towards what fashion was and how someone should present to society and, last but not least, an easy toy to play with and to poke.  
His games of teasing people into finding the right pressure point reached a new level with the Red Peril; how his mesmerizing blue eyes grew and his pupils dilated in blind rage, his eyebrows frowned in irritation, the fingers ticking and trembling nervously, the upper lip slightly twitching in a snarl.  
Illya Kuryakin was a study of life, reactions and movements. Every part of his body was alive, pulsating and vibrating, his whole body fueled and charged in energy and fire.  
When running, Napoleon could witness, feel and sense every muscle of Illya’s body processing, his heart pumping blood. He was superhuman in the mere act of being human and motioning every human actions.  
And Napoleon collected every action dearly and catalogued every and each of them as a passionate art collector who, gradually, became more and more jealous and private towards his collection.  
Napoleon found himself cradling his beloved prizes like a thief, him only the fortunate one to enjoy this private gallery made of Illya Kuryakin’s everything. 

But Napoleon Solo was not a petty thief, he was an artist, he was a poet, a painter and thievery was the art he pursued with his whole soul, mind and body.  
A form of art which couldn’t let anything inside his heart but pure greed and desire.  
What drove an artist to create a new wonderful painting? The endless pursuit of Beauty.  
What drove Napoleon Solo to steal yet another everything? The endless sense of Greed.  
And he craved with his whole heart. And, more than anything, he craved Illya Kuryakin.

But the gap that diverged between the two of them was filled with justs.  
As Napoleon launched himself, his hand reaching to touch Illya’s strong back, another just put itself in the middle, another wall to destroy, another prejudice to shatter, another impression of Napoleon Solo to unravel.

And in moments like these, Napoleon sitting on the fancy velvet sofa sipping wine while Illya, so close, yet so far, showed his back, the only part of his body almost approachable but never achievable, that Napoleon reminded to himself that he was no gentleman.  
He reminded himself that he had nothing of Illya Kuryakin.  
His prizes were illusions. He cradled only regrets.  
In moments like these, he didn’t want prizes, he didn’t want regrets. He only wanted Illya.

_You were right, Grandma. But what am I supposed to do now? I’m not made of regrets. I can’t live with them._

 

Illya Kuryakin didn’t believe in first impressions. A person couldn’t be judged by first glances and first impression. They surely gave you a square and general opinion of the enemy who you are about to face but a throughout study of the person in front of you, friend or foe, eliminated any inconveniences such as petty prejudices and wrongly first impressions.  
Trust your guts but do not follow them blindly.  
Illya Kuryakin had no interest nor intention of putting up some kind of first impression of himself for other people. He was more a soldier than a spy, his mission never involved being in contact with people more than necessary to kill them.  
Quick and efficient, nothing else mattered in his job.

An ally could turn out to be an enemy and vice versa. Both scenario included a sense of wariness which rarely exceed towards distrust but always made him in constant alert for any possible betrayal. 

He didn’t need to trust people and people should never trust him, that’s the rule. Impressions were useless gadgets.

Trust or not trust.

Illya Kuryakin didn’t have a first impression of Napoleon Solo. He knew what had collected by his files.  
Petty thief, forger, betrayer, liar, hedonist, narcissist. A perfect American without honour and values. Evidences of his crimes were more than enough to know who Napoleon Solo was and how to deal with him and extract the German girl.  
Cleverness was a variable Illya underrated about the target Napoleon Solo.  
And mostly, he bitterly admitted he had completely underrated Napoleon Solo. 

And then the wheel turned and enemy turned out to be an ally. An inconvenient, inefficient, unnerving, infuriating ally. Quick smiles who hid the bite of the snake, striking intense eyes and every mannerism perfectly studied to display a message but hide everything else. Always teasing, always pointing, always pulling the tiger’s tail and quick enough to slip away.  
Napoleon Solo was frustrating but, above all, Illya Kuryakin didn’t know who Napoleon Solo was.  
He knew who Gaby Teller was: she was wild, she was clever, she was unpredictable, she was strong and resourceful.  
But who was Napoleon Solo?  
He was a marvelous painting to marvel, a marble statue, his mannerism so polished to the point of being fake. But who he was behind the marble, behind the mannerism, behind the well-spoken words. Of this, Illya Kuryakin had no idea. 

He found himself to linger his gaze a second too long on his sharp lines, his hand twitching almost to touch, almost to feel the marble under his fingers. If he touched, he could have solved the mystery; if he touched his skin, he could have felt skin, warmth and blood or just cold and solid stone?  
And when Napoleon turned to look at him, Illya had already found something else to pierce his gaze upon. The longing never subsided.

Could he trust someone he had no idea if human at all? 

Most of all, could he trust himself anymore?

 

He still looked down at the clock at his wrist, his once missing clock of his father, now safely placed around his wrist. Maybe lost forever, now found by the American. He almost couldn’t believe it.  
He looked up again at the man and they looked at each other for a long moment, regarding each other, crushing each other impression, prejudice, everything that laid between the two of them.  
For the first time since the beginning of the unlikely partnership, Illya Kuryakin met Napoleon Solo, the man. The New Yorker, the ex-soldier, the quick-thinker, the cunning thief. And he was surprised by the man he faced, maybe for the first time.  
A man he could trust.

“спасибо…” A quiet thank you, muttered with a new found voice, but still weary of being out in public, still uneasy in front of a human, exposed and real Napoleon, eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and curiosity and a gentle faint smile. 

“You’re welcome.” So he gave up the last prize of Illya Kuryakin and stood in front of him, a thief no more, now a giver. Napoleon Solo had held everything dear to him and gave them back to him, no longer collector of Illya Kuryakin’s everything, but new found admirer of Illya Kuryakin’s entirety.  
By so, he exposed himself under the light he had always tiptoed around, always avoided, showing off the best and the worst of someone called Napoleon Solo but never himself, Napoleon.  
And he had crushed the last of his regrets. As well as the last of the _justs_ and _almosts_.

“Come on, Peril, let’s take care of those films.” Napoleon suggested with a grin.  
“Let’s see what you have in mind, Cowboy.” Illya smiled and followed him.

**Author's Note:**

> спасибо= thank you
> 
> if you want to chat a bit, here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/BIADAMPARRISH) and [tumblr](http://luciferique.tumblr.com/) and thank you again for reading!


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